Loyalty in the Taste of Skin
by Lassroyale
Summary: Castiel attempts to understand the enigma of Dean Winchester in the taste of rain against his skin.


**Title:** Loyalty in the Taste of Skin  
**Author:** Lassroyale  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Warning:** Encompasses all of Season 4  
**Disclaimer:** The pretty boys do not belong to me...I just like to put them in compromising positions.  
**Parings:** Dean/Castiel, Dean/OFC

**Word Count:** 3104  
**Summary:** Castiel attempts to understand the enigma of Dean Winchester in the taste of rain against his skin.

**A/N:** This was for an SPN Teamfic Challenge: Round 5: Loyalty

The story actually started out as something else entirely but it was unfinished and bugging me. I saw the theme for this challenge and thought that it was fitting.

**Loyalty in the Taste of Skin**

***

The wall was hard and uneven against his back, each imperfection in the brick magnified by the dampness of his coat. He could feel the grooves in the reddish stone press into his skull as he tilted his face upwards into the slanting rain. The droplets caressed his brow, nose, and cheeks like the drumming of small, fey fingers against his skin. They probed his tongue when he parted his lips, imbibing the cool water as a drunk imbibes his drink - greedy, deep, and needful.

He swallowed the drops, paying close attention to the manner in which his vessel's Adam's apple rose and fell with the motion...paying close attention to the visceral. This was something humans took for granted; the feeling of the rain upon their skin, the smell of wet garbage in their noses, the sultry beat of music reverberating through the walls of the building. He could feel the bass on his back almost as clearly as he felt the water gather into his hair and drip down his neck and dampen his clothes. He felt the music and he felt the emotions of those within seep through the wall; a conglomeration of desperation and carnal need.

He was not meant for this place, this moment in time, this world, but Castiel was there, nevertheless. He was there because somewhere inside was Dean Winchester. Somewhere within the shift of lust and physical need, was the man who was humanity's destroyer and savior. Within the walls, sliding between the rhythm and murmured words of promise, Dean lost himself...lied to himself.

Castiel pressed his fingers into the wet wall behind him and imagined he could feel his thumbs brush against the taut skin of Dean's hips. He imagined his hands could lift the pain from the hunter's heart. He imagined he could smooth away the guilt that weighed upon the hunter's soul with a gentle caress. He imagined he could relate to Dean...he imagined he could understand.

But he did not.

He did not understand what drove the man to these places, what drove him to find comfort in the flesh of another and the shallow recesses of a bottle of alcohol. He did not know what it was like to _need_ something like that - to need the physical to numb the pain within. He didn't know what it was to drink so deeply that he could finally find sleep, numb and unsatisfying, but sleep nevertheless.

He wanted to.

He wanted to know. He wanted to understand Dean Winchester in every way, down to the way his sweat smelled after a hunt - down to the way his body felt pressed against his.

These were things he kept folded close to his breast, however. Castiel was no fool, though as of late what he knew to be right and what he knew he was supposed to do, had been oddly conflicting. Moreover and perhaps worse, he didn't think he cared.

His loyalties were shifting, that much was certain.

It wasn't easy to pretend but he found himself doing it, nevertheless. He pretended he could decode the enigma of Dean Winchester. He pretended he could peel back the facade, lay his inside bare, and _know_. He wanted to pluck the essence of Dean out with his fingers and feel it in his palm. He wanted to know him so he could learn to forget him, because he wasn't supposed to care for him. He wasn't supposed to find him curious. He wasn't supposed to love him.

He wasn't supposed to chose _him_ over Heaven.

Castiel's brothers told him that his fondness of Dean Winchester was a masquerade; a trick of being too long in the presence of humans. They told him to remember life before he had been sent to earth; life when only the love of God filled him. They told him that it would be enough. They told him that it _should_ be enough.

Castiel knew it wasn't. Not since he had raised Dean from Hell. Not since he had watched the love brim in the hunter's eyes when he gazed upon his younger brother. Not since he had seen the passion ignite Dean's entire being when he fought to protect those who couldn't protect themselves. Not since he had been stabbed, shot, and told quite pointedly to 'fuck off',

Not since he had, in an act of sin, tasted the human with his lips.

It would never be enough, not anymore.

Not since his Dean Winchester consumed every thought.

***

Time meant little to angels, so long had they existed and watched and waited. All Castiel knew was the quickening of his vessel's pulse every time the door to the building opened, music and pulsing light spilling out onto the street. He would wait, still as a statue as people stumbled out of the building, fumbling with keys, with cigarettes, with each other. He clung to the empty feeling that coursed through him when a sliver of lamplight would reveal that it was not Dean weaving through the street, but somebody else entirely. He paid attention to the way his chest seemed to constrict when a trick of the shadows would remind him of Dean's hair on a stranger's head.

And each time he would lean back against the wall and wait, an extension of the building at his back. He ignored the reproachful voices of his brothers in his mind and the treacherous trend of his thoughts and continued to wait.

When Dean finally staggered into the street, Castiel could fairly taste the desperation that surrounded him as easily as he could see the denial in his eyes. Dean wore this facade like a second skin; he was a master at the game he immersed himself in. It was, after all, the game that he had lost himself in.

A woman wearing something that could politely be called an "outfit" clung to his arm, swaying along as they lingered in the fluorescent glare of the parking lot floodlights. Her laughter had long ago lost the luring timbre of innocence and it sounded harsh in Castiel's ears. She was whispering to Dean, a poor impression of en sotto voce, but he cut her short with a pinch to her rear and a sloppy kiss upon her lips.

They twined like snakes right there in the open, in the rain, pressed against the cold slick metal of the Impala. Dean hitched her skirt up, his other hand frantically working the zipper of his jeans, and suddenly the woman loosed a surprised gasp, which turned quickly into a low moan.

Castiel felt the exact moment Dean sunk himself into her. He felt it like it was _he_ who was there, buried to the hilt in her wetness and heat. It was like it was him, thrusting quickly, feeling her cunt her tighten around his cock. He felt her vibrate against him, her breath coming in short, fast gasps; he felt her thighs part further begging him deeper.

He felt the pull of her hands seeking out his flesh, tugging on his hair so hard it _hurt_. He felt her mouth as it laid a path of clumsy kisses against his jaw, his cheek, his ear. He knew when Dean lifted her and crushed her forcefully against the car, for it felt as if his cock was sliding deep, so deep into her until he felt the brush of her cervix against the sensitive head. Her heels dug into Dean's back and he could feel that too, just as he could feel her teeth graze his bottom lip.

Castiel heard Dean muttering clearly, as if there were no distance between them.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck..." groaned Dean aloud his voice a frantic rush of sound, urgent and hushed against the staccato fall of rain against the pavement. The woman's cries were hungry and Castiel could feel her jagged breathing like white noise in his ear. Faster and faster Dean slipped into the slickness of the woman's pussy, striving to reach that plateau quickly; seeking that moment where everything in his mind went blank.

Castiel felt when the pressure and tightening of pending released gripped Dean's balls, hardening his cock further, driving him into a senseless frenzy of thrusting hips. A tightness that was not his own coiled in his belly and the angel leaned his head back, his breath caught in his throat.

There was a moment of stillness; a moment of nothingness when he simply _was_...and then an explosion of feeling so powerful it staggered him, forcing a low growl between his teeth. He felt Dean come inside the woman as she clamped down around him, squeezing every last bit of his seed from him.

He felt the sweat in contrast to the coldness of the rain on Dean's skin, felt him soften, and felt him slip out of the woman with a wet, slurping noise. He himself felt the physical loss of that delicious warmth.

Castiel's skin hummed with the afterglow of sex and it was a feeling not his own. It was simply borrowed emotion, an effect of his connection with Dean - an effect of the mark. He felt (falsely) the other's satisfaction as he tucked himself back into his pants, cock sticky with fluid, and he felt a comfortable numbness settle.

Still, even beneath the temporary stupor of sex and release, Castiel could feel the desperation. It lurked like a constant disease in the fibers of Dean's soul and it waited until the blood settled and the rush of endorphins had calmed. Then slowly, ever slowly, it would leach back into the hunter's mind and consume him.

"Thanks," he heard Dean say and he glanced towards the parking lot in time to see the woman pull down her skirt angrily and storm back towards the building. Shame and humiliation colored her steps and she glanced up and locked eyes with Castiel for a moment before ducking back inside.

He pretended not to notice. He pretended he didn't see the self-loathing in her eyes or the bleak hopelessness of her soul. He pretended that there was nothing he could do for her.

What he couldn't ignore, however, was the black look in Dean's eyes as he caught sight of him standing there at the mouth of the alley, rainwater coursing down the creases in his skin and clothing in rivulets. Dean's footsteps were heavy, though Castiel saw that they were by no means sluggish.

"Cas," said Dean pulling his name along his tongue slowly, his voice gruff and his breath sharp with the bite of hard liquor. He grinned, his lips curling back from his teeth in a parody of his usual smile. All Castiel saw, however, was the pain that seeped between his teeth and stained his lips. "Cas,"drawled Dean again and stepped into him, pressing a knee between them. He tilted his face close and his breath was hot and stale against the angel's face; a stark contrast to the cold rain that drummed against them. "Did you like what you saw?" Dean rubbed his cheek against Castiel's, his fingers curling behind the other's neck. The pads of the hunter's fingers were slick upon the angel's skin and felt so hot it was as if they were melting his vessel's flesh.

"No Dean, I didn't," replied Castiel in a quiet, serious voice. There was something in his tone, however, a twist of emotion that betrayed him. It was emotion that he shouldn't have and shouldn't know. It was emotion that he was slowly learning to embrace.

The hunter pressed even closer, their chests flush so that the angel could feel the wild beat of the man's heart. He felt his vessel's body respond and a dark wave of lust raced down the length of his spine to settle low in his belly. Castiel gave into the physical instincts of his borrowed body and felt his hands settle onto Dean's hips. His fingers dug against the wet denim as if they could sink through the fabric and touch the hot skin that was beneath.

"Liar," Dean growled, "you liked it. You angels are such goddamn liars, manipulating the small folk because you think you can. Well," he continued, pressing his forehead to Castiel's, "you're all dicks."

His words were rush of sound, heavy in the space of their shared breath, and then Dean pressed his lips to the angel's. There was nothing nice or romantic about the kiss. It was almost violent, full of teeth and tongue. It was filled with domination and desperation; not love.

Castiel knew he shouldn't let this happen, that with every touch of their mouths and every click of their teeth he was slipping further from Heaven. Dean tasted of alcohol and faintly of ash, which must have been from the woman he had been with. He tasted of need and of rain, and his lips were sloppy against his, wet and so very hot.

When Dean drew back his breath was ragged and he had to work to pull the air deep into his lungs. He stared into the angel's blue eyes and Castiel saw that he looked lost; confused, as if he wasn't sure quite how he got there.

"Why do you do this, Dean Winchester?" asked the angel with solemn curiosity. The other glanced away, staring at that pavement as the rain pounded down upon it. He seemed to shrug but the movement was wooden and awkward.

"I don't know any other way to be," he answered after a moment. When he looked at Cas again, there was something close to hopelessness within his green eyes. "I don't think I _can_ be any other way, not anymore. Ain't got it in me."

Castiel touched the other's face and the elder Winchester recoiled from the tenderness of the gesture. He pushed away from the angel roughly and stepped back from the wall, a combination of anger and self-loathing layered in the spaces between his words. "Don't, just goddamn _don't_" he spat. "Don't pretend we have _that_ between us. Don't fuckin' lie to me like that...not you."

The angel felt a tightening in his vessel's chest and his hands curled at his sides loosely. He examined the sensations he felt roiling within him. There was...anger, yes, though it was wrapped in something else entirely: _fear_. Fear that he might lose Dean to...to what? Another angel? Another person? That was certainly a concept that Castiel did not understand at all. Yet the fear and the anger remained there, coiled in his chest.

He wanted to reach out to the hunter, to touch him; physical contact was something that he was learning the reality of. It bonded humans brought them closer. For him, it shifted the lines of his faith and made him question. He stood uncertainly with his arm outstretched, focusing on the pattern of raindrops on his palm. After a moment he let his arm fall back to his side. His head pounded with his thoughts and those of his brothers. The voices were confusing.

"Take me back to the motel, Cas," said Dean quietly, staring at him, water rolling down his forehead, collecting on his eyelashes, beading on his lips. He held out his hand and he looked for all the world like a child asking to be taken home. It was a plea, but Castiel didn't know what for.

"Of course Dean," he replied, taking the other's hand. He twined their fingers and though he felt the hunter stiffen, he didn't pull away. The world folded upon itself and twisted and turned, and the two slipped from the parking lot leaving nothing but rain in their wake.

***

The motel was empty and the air felt stale and unused. It had been awhile since Sam had been there. Outside, the rain continued to drum its fingers against the window, softening the bitterness of the silence.

Castiel poured Dean into bed after the hunter shucked off his shoes and peeled off his jacket, tossing them to puddle wetly on the carpet. He helped the elder Winchester to his bed and tucked him in, sitting on the edge. His trench coat dripped onto the floor below and water trickled from his rain-slicked hair.

For a long while Dean and the angel looked at one another, wrapped in silence heavy as a sodden blanket.

"Why are you here, Cas?" asked Dean, his voice as hushed and forceful as the rain outside. His green eyes were dark, full of a passionate intensity that was somewhat unfocused by the liquor still coursing through his veins.

The angel opened his mouth to answer and the truth spilled out, surprising even himself. "I'm here for you."

Another long silence dropped over them. Finally Dean spoke again. "I'm glad you're here." The elder Winchester wrapped his fingers around Castiel's tie and tugged him down, his chin lifting to bring their mouths together. This time when they kissed it was slow and languid, each drawing in a deep, thoughtful taste of the other. When he pulled back, Dean's eyes were half-lidded and full with the weight of his emotions. "When I taste you my pain goes away."

_'When I taste you,'_ thought the angel, _'I stray a little farther from Heaven.'_

Instead he spoke in a reverent voice, "Then let me take it from you as long as you will have me." As they shared another kiss, the hunter smiling softly against his lips, Castiel knew that he might never understand Dean Winchester fully.

But at least he understand now that _he_ wanted to be near him, for as long as he would be able.

(The End.)


End file.
